


Approval

by Steadfxst



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Multi, Oral Sex, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 23:05:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15673107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steadfxst/pseuds/Steadfxst
Summary: Jim, Patrice, and Bob split a bottle of wine. And things rapidly pick up from there.





	Approval

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ruthvsreality](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruthvsreality/gifts).



> For my friend who just finished writing an amazing fic and deserves a treat!

It was just a few drinks with the Comeys. It was just a bottle of red wine between them.

“I see Jim finally made it up to you with a nice bottle,” Bob says.

“You wound me,” Jim says, taking another sip.

Jim clutches his chest in a theatrical fashion, and Patrice rolls her eyes with a smile on her face. She wraps her arm around his and rests her head against him, too small to quite be resting on his shoulder. They were a lovely couple.

Bob takes a drink.

 

* * *

 

He’s used to Jim being affectionate. Always professional, always deferent, but always affectionate. But when Jim shifts from touching his hand to putting his hand on his thigh, in front of his wife, Bob thinks it’s probably time for him to make his goodbyes. If Jim was looking for physical affection, he certainly wasn’t going to get in Patrice’s way.

"I should go," Bob says.

“Already?” Patrice asks.

"Stay," Jim says.

“I could stay all night, if you’d let me,” Bob says, giving them an easy out. “I should go."

"But you _could_ stay," Jim says. He turns to Patrice. “I mean…”

Bob watches the way he looks at her, the way she takes his hand. They’ve…discussed this before. About him. About having him stay. Jim’s hand stays on this thigh. _Oh_.

Patrice begins speaking, and he looks up.

“You’re more than welcome to stay, Bob. But there won’t be any hard feelings if you decide to go.”

In the time Patrice has been speaking, Jim has sunk down on the couch and has listed against his wife. He grips her hand in his and kisses her neck. Jim’s eyes are closed, and Bob tries not to stare at the way his lashes fan out over his cheeks. He hears himself speak:

“If it’s what Jim wants.”

 

* * *

 

Bob pulls away to catch his breath. It was all so sudden, so unexpected, so  _fast_.

“His lips are so soft, Patrice.”

Jim tilts his head back to speak to her where she was curled around the other side of him on their bed. She holds him tight.

“That’s nice,” she says, softly, into his ear.

“You should kiss him,” Jim says.

Her eyes flick up to meet his. They’re so blue. Warm and gentle, too.

“Bob?”

He doesn’t know what makes him sit up in order to maneuver around Jim, who was lying between them, but he does. Jim turns from his side to lie on his back to watch his wife lean in and meet him in the middle. Bob cups a hand on her cheek and kisses her somewhat chastely. She pulls away first.

“His lips _are_ soft,” she agrees.

Bob shivers. He's just resettled himself back on the bed when Jim finally replies.

“Soft like your thighs.”

Bob wonders how she’ll respond, or if she’ll acknowledge the comment at all.

“Tell us what you want, Jim.”

Her voice quakes a bit towards the end. He has a feeling she knows _exactly_ what Jim wants.

 

* * *

 

Bob feels like he’s intruding when he watches Patrice grip their headboard with white knuckles while she straddles Jim’s face. He lies there, hands gripping her rear in his massive hands. He wants to touch himself, but that feels wrong, somehow. This part isn’t _about_ him.

Or maybe it is.

They had asked him to be here.

Patrice had told him he was welcome to stay.

And even though he was already hard, he refrains from touching them, from touching himself.

She moans loudly when she comes, and Bob bites the inside of his cheek hard enough that he tastes blood.

 

* * *

 

Bob slips his hand inside Jim’s boxers once Jim’s caught his breath and once Patrice was sated, lying draped over Jim’s other side.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

He not sure if he’s asking Jim or Patrice or himself. Is this okay? Should he be doing this? Is it alright that his hand wraps around Jim like it belongs there? How should he be feeling when he feels fluid sluice from the tip of Jim’s cock, down his shaft, and over his fingers?

“Fuck,” Jim says eloquently.

Patrice gives a soft laugh, and his turns his attention to her. For what? Her approval?

“It’s okay,” she says.

Bob nods. He moves his hand a little faster under the sheet. He feels Patrice’s eyes on him as he does so. He wonders what she’s thinking.

 

* * *

 

He hasn’t done this in a long time. Not since John back when they played college lacrosse, and that was decades and decades ago.

“How does he feel?” she asks.

“He’s…big,” Bob says.

He can feel the length and girth inside of him, pushing everything else aside and taking its place. He feels _full_. Bob doesn’t know what else to say that wouldn’t be woefully awkward and inadequate.

“Bob,” Jim moans. “Please?”

Jim’s fingers dig into this hips.

They don't talk much after that.

 

* * *

 

He’s not sure what to do after Jim comes inside him. The idea of disconnecting from Jim makes his heart twinge in a way he doesn’t entirely understand. He’s never fucked Jim before; there’s no reason for him to feel so attached. And yet, he feels something break inside his heart when Jim softens and slips out of him. Bob looks down, trying to gauge where Jim is on this.

Jim smiles up at him.

Bob shakes his head, trying to keep himself present.

“That was,” Jim starts to say.

Bob looks off to the side, and Jim stops short. If Jim was—If Jim was going to talk about his feelings right now, well...

He feels a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s okay,” Patrice murmurs.

It was as though she understood what he was thinking. He is grateful. Bob reaches his hand up to cover her hand on his shoulder.

“Let me take care of you,” she says.

Bob nods.

 

* * *

 

He’s—he’s fucking Jim’s wife while Jim lies just a few inches to the left of him, watching them. Her knees bracket his hips as he thrusts inside of her. She feels like wet velvet.

“Oh god,” he moans. “I’m—”

He feels Jim’s eyes on him, and his rhythm stutters.

“Where should I…?”

He hates asking. It sounds so _crude_. But time was running out, and he needed to know before it was too late.

“God, Bob,” Jim moans.

“I have to—”

“Inside me,” she says.

Apparently that was all he needed to hear. He moans softly into her neck and empties himself into her, thrusting a few more times until it all became too much to bear. He pants into her hair, and he feels her hands come up to gently stroke up and down his back and even in his hair.

“You did so good,” she says. “Jim’s wanted this for a long, long time.”

“Patrice,” he says brokenly.

Did she even know what she was saying? Bob moves off her. He needed to _process_ —

“God, honey, let me,” Jim says.

Bob watches Jim move to lie on his stomach between her legs. His hands curl around the tops of her thighs. He watches him eat her out like it’s his job. His tongue curls around her and in her, cleaning Bob’s come off her.

“God, Jim,” he thinks.

How long? How long has he wanted this? Waited for this? How long has he been asking Patrice?

He aches, now, in a way he doesn’t entirely understand. He’s not sure he wants to understand or if he’d even be able to.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, they fall quiet. Bob hasn’t smoked in years, but there’s a nervous energy thrumming in his veins, and he craves a cigarette.

“I’m going to shower,” Patrice says. “Anyone can join me.”

Jim sits up. They look at him. Bob quickly checks his watch; it was very late.

“I should go,” he says.

“Okay,” Jim says. “You’re always welcome here though, Bob.”

“Really,” Patrice says.

She emphasizes this with a squeeze to his hand.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Patrice pecks him on the cheek before climbing out of the bed, and Jim does the same on the other side. He smiles because they smile, but the worrying thing in his chest is still there. He needs to drive around for a while. Clear his head. Buy some smokes.

He goes about picking up his clothes and redressing while Jim climbs out of bed to pick up a few pillows off the floor and to follow his wife into the master bath. He hears the water running just as he finishes buttoning his shirt. He drapes his jacket over his arm.

“Good night, Bob,” Jim says.

“Good night, Jim.”

“Hey, Bob?”

“Yes, Jim?”

“Thanks.”

He has always thought that Jim was a good man. Some of the worry knotted in his chest loosens.

“You’re welcome, Jim.”


End file.
